02 - July 1977

My parent’s house was a small three-bedroom split-level and the garage wasn’t much at all and that was before we remodeled it. One of my dad’s co-workers, Bob Moyer, had put up a false wall in the garage to split it into two smaller rooms. The front half became a storage area and the back half became my bedroom. That was in 1974, the year my little brother was born and we had to make space for his nursery.

Whenever I went to the garage, I’d have to move other things out of the way to get to my bike. That usually included parking two or three bikes on the driveway and stacking old records, books, and boxes full of ‘important personal papers’ on the driveway beside the bikes. Then, I’d put it all away again until I returned home, when I’d have to find a place to stash my bike.

My mother stood at the front door, watching my daily garage ritual.

“It really is about time we cleaned out that garage, isn’t it?” she asked as she supervised from the end of the porch, her hands shielding her eyes from the mid-day sun.

“It’s fine just how it is,” I replied.

“No, we need to have a garage sale.”

I shrugged as I shut the garage door and coasted down the long hill to Lee’s house. Mom had been threatening to clean out that garage ever since Mr. Moyer built it. Every holiday, a few more things went in – Halloween decorations, unused Christmas presents, and, of course, bikes, new and old.

Lee was still sleeping when I arrived at his house. His mother sat me at the kitchen table and brought out a pitcher of Tang and some sugar cookies. A small 9” black and white television sat right on the end of the kitchen counter I waited patiently, eating cookies, drinking Tang, and watching Sonny and Cher while Lee got ready.

“Isn’t that Cher just the craziest woman on earth?”

Mrs. Heinz was referring to Cher’s sparkling costume and feather boa, which upset the camera lens in those days so much so that images would echo and blur, like a weatherman wearing a bright green jacket in front of a green screen.

She sang “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” before Sonny joined her afterwards. He glanced up at his wife, some 8” taller than he, while she made jokes, always at his expense, and he flirted with that woman endearingly – it was hard to tell who really wore the pants in that family – but that was just about the only place in the world where that was the case. The sexual revolution was still in its early stages – when men still ‘dressed like men and women dressed like women’. Shows like “Mary Tyler Moore” cried “Equality Now!”, but shows like “All in the Family” and “Barney Miller” reminded you that the “good dol boys club” was still in full force in real America.

“Lee?” Mrs. Heinz called to the back room.

“I’m almost ready, ma.”

He brought his backpack, stuffed with swim trunks, a beach towel, baseball, glove, and cleats. I had my glove looped into my bat. I pinned it in into place across my handlebars as we biked along the rocky bike paths that crossed the grassy fields, cutting between the diamonds. This time, we locked our bikes at the bike rack before we went into the Swim Club.

Andy was working at the clerk’s desk.

“Hey Fitzie, when you off?”

“I get lunch at noon. Then, I work right up to 4:30 today.”

“Jayne knows you have practice today, right?”

Andy nodded, “The bandies are gone for summer camp, so we’re short staffed the rest of this week. I have to work right after practice, too.”

“Aw, man, I wanted to do something tonight.”

Andy shrugged.

“Alright, we’ll just have to find something else to do.”

The basketball court was crowded with kids fighting over the basketball and attempting crazy full court shots. Lee and I decided to go into the Game Room instead.

The Game Room was where the older kids hung out. That was mostly because you couldn’t get in with the pink swim passes, which meant you were under 13 and couldn’t even come to the Swim Club without an adult’s supervision.

Still, kids sneaked in through the hole in the fence at the very back of the Swim Club. It was pretty obvious when someone snuck in, unless they had friends who pretended to play volleyball and created a general distraction. Most of the kids just squeezed through the gap between the gate and the guardhouse, right next to the basketball court.

One of the swim guards sat on a stool outside the game room, checking swim passes. It was usually Laurie Bent, a busty blonde with long, feathered hair.  She dated a few of the older guys who hung out there and played pinball on free tokens she’d given them. Every so often, she’d take a hit on their cigarette while she stood at the pinball machine near the door.

It was smoky inside. It was hot and sticky, too. There was no air conditioning, only a small broken fan which moved the body odor from one end of the room to the other.

We played games until our money ran out. Afterwards, we peeled off our shirts and shoes and took a dip in the swimming pool. We didn’t stay long, though. Mr. Klein never approved of that. Afterwards, we showered up and waited for Andy to clock out. We left our bikes locked on the Swim Club’s bike racks and walked over to the baseball diamond.

“Alright, we’ve got Westerberg this weekend. We need to practice our fielding, especially force outs and fielder’s choices. Who wants to play rabbit?”

Everyone raised a hand. Coach Klein picked Byron, since he was the catcher anyway. These drills only involved the fielders. Mr. Klein started hitting grounders while Byron tried outrunning the throws.

“Alright, Byron, let’s work the cut off.”

Byron trotted to the middle of the field and stood on second base. Mr. Klein clipped soft pop flies into the outfield. Byron waited until the very moment any of us caught the ball. Then, he sprinted towards third. More often than not, he beat the throw.

“We’re never going to beat Westerberg if we can’t work simple plays.”

We stood in the outfield with our hands on our hips while other fielders shagged flies. After about an hour, Mr. Klein gave up on that drill and went to another.

“Alright, let’s work the suicide squeeze. Byron, put on your mitt. I want the outfielders to take turns laying bunts down the third base line while a couple of the others run it out.”

The only one who performed the suicide squeeze with any amount of success was Byron, running down bunts from behind home plate. He’d pin the runner on third or just tag him out. Sometimes, he’d make the throw to first to turn the double play. That was just Byron’s way. He’d perform and we’d watch.

 Nevertheless, it was still a full day of practice. Immediately afterwards, we all went to the Swim Club. Byron tagged along.

“I don’t think I can go to Riverfront Stadium with you guys next week.”

“Why not?” asked Lee.

“My dad doesn’t think it’s safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” said Lee.

“My dad doesn’t want me going,” insisted Byron.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, “We’ll scalp the tickets and come up with some other solution.”

“No,” said Lee, “Let’s go talk to him.”

We all looked at each other, unwilling to tell Lee why Byron couldn’t go. Instead, we followed him the whole way up the hill to Byron’s house. He banged on the screen door until someone answered the door.

“Who is it?” called a voice. It was Byron’s mom.

“It’s me, Lee Heinz. Where’s Mr. Johnson?”

“He’s still sleeping. He works third shift.”

“Can you wake him? This is important.”

“Lee, honey, he needs his sleep. That’s important, too.”

Lee glanced at his watch. “It’s almost 7 o’clock.”

“I’ll check,” she said. Byron and I arrived just as Mrs. Johnson disappeared. Mr. Johnson came to the front door, still half asleep.

“You want to talk to me?”

Lee nodded.

“Why can’t Byron go with us?”

“Go where?”

“The ballgame.”

“Oh, that. It’s just not safe, son.”

“Sure it is, I go with my dad all the time.”

We all stood there quietly until Mr. Johnson spoke.

“I can’t make any promises, but let me see what I can do.”

Mr. Johnson went back to bed. Meanwhile, we played Wiffle Ball in the Johnson’s back yard. It wasn’t long until three of the neighbor kids from the house behind the Johnson’s came and sat on top of the fence, their feet dangling over the edge.

“Get out of here!” said Lee.

“It’s a free country,” said Todd, the youngest of the boys.

“Yeah, but you’re hanging your feet on our side of the yard. You’re trespassing.”

“We’re perfectly fine right here,” said Tommy. He was our age, but he didn’t go to our school. He had spent most of his time in and out of the Youth Center, arrested for petty crimes like theft and arson.

Mikey, the middle brother, jumped off the fence and landed in the Johnson’s yard. He leaned against the fence, his arms propped on the rail. He wasn’t as big as Tommy. In fact, he was short and stocky. He had a bad mouth and a bad attitude to match. He got in fights at our school all the time. He’d never gone to jail, but his turn was sure to come.

“I think we’re perfectly fine right here,” said Mikey. His little brother Todd jumped off the fence and stood beside him.

“We should beat you up right here,” said Lee.

“Nah, come on,” said Byron.

Just then, Mrs. Johnson stepped onto to the back porch.

“Boys, you come inside, Mr. Johnson has to sleep.”

“That’s right,” laughed Mikey, “you white niggers go with your nigger friend and hide.”

Lee balled his fists as he turned towards the hoodlums. Byron and I caught him by the arm and took him inside.

Just then, Mr. Johnson joined his wife on the back porch. He stood about 6 foot 6 and had a muscular build in an era when nobody exercised. He always reminded me of Pedro Borbon, the tall black pitcher for the Reds from the Dominican Republic. Pedro Borbon was famous for storming off the mound at batters and getting into brawls. Mr. Johnson, on the other hand, was soft-spoken.

“Come on, boys, let’s all go inside.”

He stood on the porch until the neighbors hopped back over the fence. They chattered among themselves as they went back to their house, upset there wouldn’t be a fight.

It was almost dark. Mr. Johnson offered to take us home. We didn’t understand why. We were only short bike rides home. Even Lee, who lived down the hill, could get home in less than three minutes.

“Let me load up your bikes.”

He stopped at my house first. He pulled my bike out of the back of his Monte Carlo and set it in driveway. As I tucked my bike into the garage, he met my mother at the door. She let him in. Me and the guys talked for a little while. Mr. Johnson came back. There was a smile on his face.

“All right boys, it looks like you can go to the game after all. Me and your fathers are going, too.”

“All right!” said Lee as everyone high-fived. I went inside, as happy as ever. Not only was I going, but my dad was going, too. It was rare when he got to go, mainly because of his long working hours. That was the main reason Grandma wanted to take us.

Dad bought three tickets as close as he could to ours, but they were a few sections away. “Still,” Dad said, “We’ll figure out a way to make it work out, even if that means sitting in the red seats.”

The red seats were Riverfront Stadium’s worst seats. They were on the third balcony, about as far away as you could get from the action unless you were listening on the radio. Even watching them on television seemed better than sitting in the red seats.

“Also,” added mother, “before you can go to the game, you have to clean out the garage for a garage sale.”

“Aww, come on,” I groaned.

“It’s a mess,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help,” said dad.

Dad’s offer struck me as funny. Whenever it came to one of mom’s household projects, he’d always say ‘Don’t worry’, but left it undone.

Then again, my mother wasn’t much for household projects, either. Shelves were left half-done and blankets were left unmended. It was a working agreement between them. In the end, if they wanted anything truly done, they’d put it off on me.

The very next day, after practice, I went straight home. Byron came with me. He volunteered to help, which was great news to me, especially after I started digging things out of the garage and organizing them in the yard. That garage may have been small, but it held an awful lot.

Soon, mom came to the front porch.

“Dinner’s ready, boys!”

She’d fixed meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I ate a little. Byron ate a lot.

“I sure love your cooking, Mrs. Jolley,” he said between heaping spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.

“Thank you, Byron,” she said as she refilled his plate. He quickly finished it off.

“You must be famished! Do you want more?”

“I think I’m good, Mrs. Jolley.”

Byron scooted his chair back, making room between him and the table. He sat and waited patiently as I finished off my first plate. Afterwards, we returned to our work in the garage. Mom came out to supervise once again.

“Mrs. Jolley, where do you want these old records?”

“Just put them on the rocking chair in the living room.”

“What about this old television?” I asked.

Mom directed me to put it back into the garage. It was getting dark, so she started shifting her focus to picking items for the sale and items to store in the garage. We’d worked for several hours, but we barely made a dent.

“I suppose that’s good for now.”

“I gotta get home anyway,” said Byron as he started to get on his bike.

“You shouldn’t ride your bike after dark,” said my mom, “you should probably just walk. Jake, do you want to go with him?”

I nodded.

The trip was short and quick. I’d secretly feared running into any one of the Fluharty boys, especially Mikey. Luckily, none of them were out. Unluckily, I’d have to walk home alone.

I made the return trip, looking out for anyone at all. Whenever I saw someone, I ducked between houses or behind shrubs to avoid being seen. After I made it home safely, I took a shower and went to bed.

The next day, Byron didn’t come by at all. He didn’t show up at practice either. The day after that, I helped mom set up for the garage sale. After a long, boring morning, I abandoned her and went to the Swim Club. I spent most of my time at the volleyball court, but I hung out with Fitzie during his breaks.

Mom had sold most everything in the garage by the time I returned, including the old busted television. She was closing up shop, finished for the day.

“You want to help me put things away?”

I nodded. We stuffed the remainders into the garage, which was now about half empty. It looked a lot better.

“Where do you want these clothes?”

“I’ll take them to Goodwill,” she replied.

I sat the box at the edge of the porch and went to put my bike away. I noticed something missing.

“Where’s Byron’s bike?”

“Hmmm?”

“Byron’s bike – the black and yellow BMX bike. Where is it?”

“Oh…” she said with a faint despondent draw.

“You sold it, didn’t you?”

Mom heaved a sigh, “We’ll get him a new one.”

“You can’t just do that. That’s not enough. Who bought it?”

Mom stood there for a moment, trying to recollect when it disappeared.

“I’m not sure, but think I sold it early on. I don’t even remember what the guy looked like. I think he had a boy. I don’t know. There wasn’t anyone here to help me, Jake.”

In her own passive/aggressive way, She meant, “You weren’t here to help and it was your fault I sold it.”

“Maybe we can put an ad in the paper. It’ll turn up somewhere.”

I was the one who’d have to deliver the news to Byron. I decided it could wait until tomorrow.

Meanwhile, mom had made a tidy profit from the garage sale – it would probably be enough to buy a brand new bike – if she had three or four more sales, that is. At least making money wasn’t her main goal. The mess in the garage was now somewhat manageable.

I called Byron the next morning with the bad news. My mom offered to take him to the store and buy a brand new bike and he accepted. We spent Sunday driving from place to place, hunting for a replacement bike.

“I dunno, Mrs. Jolley, my old bike was black and yellow. I really want a black and yellow bike.”

In fact, we searched all day long, canvassing Cincinnati’s department stores. Finally, we found a store in Glendale, a village on the north edge of town. The bike we found cost a bit more than my mom wanted to spend, but she was spending away her guilt.

“80 dollars? For a bike?”

The clerk nodded. The bike she bought for me as a Christmas gift in 1975 only cost $55.00. I was shocked when mom paid for it with a crisp one hundred dollar bill. It was the first and last $100 I’d see for about 20 years.

We dropped Byron off at his house before heading home.

“Please do not tell your father about this. He would go absolutely mad.”

I nodded. We didn’t speak of that day again until I was out of college.

The rest of the week went by without very much drama until the day before the game. My father came home with a handful of tickets for the red seats. They were color-coded, bright red to match their section. I spent an hour after dinner comparing the red tickets to my green ticket. It was some thing to see – Cincinnati Reds vs. Los Angeles Dodgers, July 12^th, in bold red print, with a picture of Riverfront Stadium emblazoned on the right side with a disclaimer in fine print below the picture.

The next morning flew by as we rushed to get ourselves together. We rode in Mr. Heinz’s station wagon, which comfortably fit the adults in the front while we kids were sprawled out in the back.

All three of us had our ball gloves, hoping to catch any foul balls that popped up behind home plate. We climbed up the ramps to section 402, right behind home plate. Grandma barely made the journey up the staircase.

Even though my Dodgers lost 5-3, I couldn’t have been happier. The Reds scored all their runs in the fourth inning. That was a good thing, though, because my favorite Dodger pitcher, Charlie Hough, pitched a scoreless second half, only allowing a few Reds on base. He was a southpaw, just like me. His knuckleball seemed to drop half a foot whenever he threw it. When he threw his fastball, the batters were expecting the knuckle ball. His fastballs always blew right by ‘em.

We stopped at the old Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor just across the Ohio River. We shared a “Noah’s Ark”, a large glass bowl filled with six scoops of ice cream, three brownies, a river of chocolate syrup and whipped cream. It was topped with a miniature plastic boat and tiny plastic animal figurines. When we finished it, they would celebrate our achievement by sounding the fire alarm. However, there was no fire alarm, because we left a pool of sweet, sloppy, melted ice cream in the bottom of the bowl when we were finished.

Still, it was a great day. It was certainly better than we might have expected.

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